The Collected Connoisseur

by Valentine, Mark

  ‘Yet nothing here prepared for me anything untoward. The stony track passed over a narrow stone bridge which crossed the boundary stream. I paused, took a deliberate pace forward, and entered into Fineshade. A wan, greyish green moor stretched away on both sides, wild with tussocky grasses, and gripped at times by stark little trees, wind-carved into gnarled shapes. Through the dimness of the day, I could just see the curve of a white wall some way off, high and blind. This, I supposed, must enclose the grounds of the Hall which, apart from some outbuildings, appeared to be the only human edifice in this extra-parochial territory. The inhabitants, assuming there to be any, had supplied no details of themselves to any Census, and were probably exempt from doing so: or perhaps the Census-takers had been too diffident to press the point. I had sent some days before me a brief note as to my intention to call: but I had no certainty that this had been delivered here, or read by anyone.

  ‘The track took me to the very perimeter of the wall, dipping as it went, so that I was still afforded no glimpse of the house which was my goal. I stood in the lee of this pale boundary within a boundary, a little sheltered from the bleakness of the day, and surveyed the way I had come. Then I began to follow the line of the wall. I found no break of any sort in it, until I had walked for some good few minutes, and then only a little dark wicket gate, of encrusted iron in four plain bars and a diagonal. This gave directly onto a thicket of thin beech saplings, which, with other young trees, were dense enough to obscure any further vista. I paused here, uncertain whether to take this route or to go on further to find some more prominent opening into the grounds.

  ‘As I stood in the opening by the little dark gate and the grey thicket of spindly trees, with dreary wan fields stretching away behind me, and a shroud of clouds above, in a scene, in short, all shorn of any hue save the palest and gloomiest, there nevertheless streamed across my mind a wild riot of colour, as if a great banner of gold, of crimson, of purple, of deep blue, had suddenly flared and rippled in the air before my eyes—just like that sunset we have witnessed. It was the quick, streaked impression of a moment, and yet it was as brightly real as the muted tones of all else that surrounded me. I shook my head to clear it, however, pulled the strap of my slim brown leather valise more surely onto my shoulder, and walked on to look for the next opening in the wall.

  ‘Eventually, I came to what must surely have been intended as the principal entrance. The tall door was of heavy, almost black wood, studded, and bound across with wrought iron shapes that resembled nothing less than the flowing sensuous beauty of Arabic script. The door’s architraves were constructed from the same stone as the wall; standing back for a moment, I saw that my earlier impressions were not unfounded, as the pointed arch was at least as Moorish as it was Gothic. The entrance seemed to demand empty hot blue desert skies or the dusty and raucous streets of the bazaar quarter of somewhere east of Tripoli but no further so than cryptic Petra or the Levant littoral.

  ‘The massive door opened as I pressed, experimentally, one of the black iron studs, larger than the rest, and one that seemed to be covered with more of the script-like serpentine shapes, although much worn away. I had thought to myself, “Open, Sesame!”—and, indeed, the door was opened to me. Beyond a tiny and bare vestibule, a stone-flagged path curved away out of sight through cypress trees.

  ‘Once through the trees, I saw the house. It was predominately half-timbered, black and white; off to the left was a grey stone structure, surely an estate church or chapel. Balancing it on the right was a plainer building, perhaps a dining-hall. As I approached, the definitely architecturally English feel of the scene was joined by the same feeling that I had experienced earlier. This place belonged in the heat and light of the Orient, with swirling banners and flags of rich fabrics, gorgeously-coloured hangings on castle walls, and the long drawn-out and ineffable conflict of Crescent and Cross. For a moment, the dour trees became dancing flames; as before, the thin clouds a vision of rippling fields of clamouring colour.

  ‘I entered the porch, also with its Moorish arch, and rang a very conventional—after what I had already seen and felt—brass bell. Somehow—I never quite got the sense of who it was, whether a servant or a more trusted retainer, or even a member of the owner’s family, who guided me—I was ushered straight to the main hall, the structure that from the outside I had assumed to be a dining hall. So I had been correct. I entered, alone, a medieval jewel: a high white-walled hall, roofed with pale cruck-shaped beams like wishbones in the act of being pulled. More light, and of a differing quality, than seemed possible flooded down from tall windows. I was greeted by the owner, whom I had only known as Dr Considine. He was as venerable in appearance as his handwriting had suggested. Suddenly I recalled the script-like reinforcements on the door at the entrance to his domain … His handshake was strong and vigorous, but I sensed that something was being held back.

  ‘ “You have had a long journey,” he said. “Rest, and be welcome. I have called for refreshments.”

  ‘We sat in heavy wooden chairs, strongly carved, but comfortable. I gazed around the great room. Between the windows, the walls were covered with shields with heraldic designs that looked somehow different from any that I had ever seen before. Of course, I was only able to glimpse them, and I promised myself that I would ask about them when the time was right.

  ‘There was the sound of soft footsteps. A young man—a boy, really—approached, bearing a brass tray with tall crystal goblets. Although the boy seemed to be in the role of servant, his air and demeanour were anything but that. He had a haughty beauty, if anything certainly too high-bred for this role. His nobility was betrayed by the flint-shaped nose, the upward tilt of the head, and his almondine, Egyptian eyes. The Orient again! The boy’s fuchsia-pink mouth was firmly set, and gave the impression of an ability to speak and expect as of right to be shown and given respect—and more. Yet he merely smiled as he handed each of us a glass, before disappearing as quickly and as quietly as he had come.

  ‘Dr Considine gestured at me to drink. The cordial, wine, or spirit, I was not sure which, was a deep purple hue, and crawled down my throat like viscous velvet.

  ‘ “Your son?” I asked, as the door closed behind the boy, though there was no likeness between them. I wanted to know more of him.

  ‘Dr Considine laughed gently, and demurred, murmuring instead, “My ward”—or perhaps “My lord”—I could not quite discern the word.

  ‘I sipped at my wine (as I decided to call it).

  ‘ “The Clerks—” I began.

  ‘Dr Considine held a finger to his lips. “Later,” he said. “There will be time later. I will show you to your room. And before dinner you may see the chapel.”

  ‘ “My room? I was not expecting to stay. I only have the papers—”

  ‘ “Of course we would like you to stay. It grows dark. We are hospitable. We cannot be rushed.”

  ‘Dinner was taken by candlelight in the great hall. The heraldic designs on the shields flickered as the light shone on old metals and colours. Dr Considine and I sat at table, with the boy a little apart from us. He was briefly introduced to me as Alexander. Little was said, although what conversation there was between Dr Considine and myself was of a cordial enough nature. Of my mission nothing was said by either of us. I wanted to ask, too, about the strange boy, whose air was of the brooding authority of antiquity, rather than the classically-formed youth that was so plain to see. Maybe one led to the other. But I said nothing, not wishing to offend or to break the spell that seemed to be weaving itself around us, the table, the hall, like the seemingly endless serpentine ramifications, invocations, of Arabic script.

  ‘ “It is late,” Dr Considine said. “We can, I hope, conclude your business in the morning. I still have a few details to attend to before I sleep. So I bid you good night.”

  ‘I could not respond to such firmness yet courtesy except with assent. Before I could say anything, the boy had reappeared with an ornately carved l
amp, and was leading me to my room. I risked a direct question.

  ‘ “How long have you lived here?” I asked, once we were out of the hall.

  ‘ “I think I have always been here,” he said.

  ‘ “Your parents knew Dr Considine?”

  ‘But he would say no more.

  ‘I could not sleep. I became obsessed with the chapel, the counterpart of the hall in which I had met Dr Considine and the boy. I put on the gown that had been provided, and decided to go and have a look at it, trusting that there would be a source of light available. I found my way there easily enough, by dint of following corridors leading away from the entrance in the opposite direction to those that led to the great hall. The chapel door was open. I saw straight away that I was not alone: two hooded figures were sitting in stalls in the quire, and a little incense was burning. A lamp glimmered. Now there was a monastic atmosphere, and two monks, one young and one old, holding nocturnal services or vigil. I slid into a pew right by the entrance. Soon I heard a low chanting, almost a measured conversation, like the versicles and responses of a more traditional vespers or suchlike act of worship.

  ‘The dimness of the chapel seemed to move, with swirls of greater and lesser darkness, as if the incense smoke had become alive. I felt time move, open… . in the secret liturgy there was anamnesis—that word so merely translated as “memory” in English liturgies. Time dissolved, and I felt the changing of the stars, the mottled progression of days, weeks … centuries. The rising and falling of the nations, the new replacing the old, and the new itself becoming old, and being replaced, supplanted in its turn. I felt—I cannot say I saw, although my eyes were not left unoccupied—holy things revealed and hidden again, and the holiness was all one, of antiquity and beauty, and awe. It was all sublime. The secrets of the Crusaders, of the Temple, of the Persians, of the Pyramids and the Sphinx… . Mediated by the old man and the boy, wisdom and youth, power and vigour, master and servant—these attributes changing place as the smoky shapes swirled and twisted, formed and re-formed, like living and visible invocations of power as the gates were opened for one night.

  ‘And yet even as their voices rose together in a great chant, the gruff sonority of the old man and the sweet descant of the younger, there fell upon the scene a mask of black, an awful darkness, as if some great high light had been withdrawn, extinguished.

  ‘Then the gorgeous colours of the banners of my vision briefly returned, and I must have cried out, as the floor fell away—then, silently, to either side, Dr Considine and the boy, kneeling to help me up, took hold of my arms, and guided me back to my room. I slept in dizzyingly clamorous dreams, all fury and chase and brilliant, bursting colours, and I awoke unrefreshed. For I knew what I had witnessed. It was the great lost mass from the inner heart of imperial Byzantium, from its last, diminished outpost: it was the Rite of Trebizond. For seekers after lost liturgies it was the true Grail, for only fragments had survived, and it was maimed and incomplete.

  ‘I came down to a simple but excellent breakfast. A solemn silence lay between us. I felt I must share what I knew or I should never earn their trust. As soon as I had uttered the title of the Rite, they exchanged quick glances.

  ‘ “Perhaps you have been drawn to us,” Dr Considine began, “for that you of the so few visitors we receive should know of the Rite… .” He halted, then, evidently mustering confidence, began again.

  ‘ “This place is both our refuge and our sallying-point,” Dr Considine said. “As you know, the Empire of Trebizond, like all earthly empires, was not destined to endure. And even the City of Constantine itself, the transformed Byzantium, has not remained in its rightful position—at least, not politically.”

  ‘The boy spoke, quietly but fiercely. “It is our City, and it shall endure, for as long as the earth endures—”

  ‘Dr Considine touched the boy’s arm gently. “You are right, Alexander,” he sighed. “The last Empire of the Romans and its tributaries, the cities of Byzantium and Trebizond, and the other places—yes, surely, they stand firm and will do so for as long as is permitted, for as long as they are faithfully and loyally served.”

  ‘I broke some of the freshly-baked bread that I had been given. For a moment the action engendered, perhaps, its own small anamnesis, and I glanced at the others.

  ‘Dr Considine smiled. “Nothing, and no action, is lost or wasted,” he said. “Their significances just need to be discerned.”

  ‘ “I mean no disrespect,” I said. “But I would like to know …”

  ‘After breakfast I strolled in the gardens for a few minutes. Dr Considine had said that he and Alexander had several small tasks to attend to, and then we could transact our business. A little later in the morning, then, Alexander came for me and conducted me to a small library. My elder host treated me as if nothing untoward had been said. He gently laid out before me a number of frail, faded muniments, like ancient skin, some with the mark of the Great Seal upon them, together with more recent transliterations of their contents. There was little doubting the validity of the claims made by the terrain as to its inviolability from the common run of laws and duties.

  ‘ “My employers can have no further business in this place,” I said. “But, as I said earlier, for myself—”

  ‘Dr Considine and I remained seated while Alexander went to fetch refreshment.

  ‘ “I see that you are wondering,” Considine said. “Alexander is my servant, yes, for now, but he is also my ward and superior. Those who would lord it over others must first be their servant. Alexander would not, and cannot, lord it over others; but he has been chosen to succeed me, and his blood, his very self, is closer to the Ideal than mine.”

  ‘Alexander returned with goblets and a tightly-stoppered bottle, all of cloudy glass. The liquid was almost black, but its taste was bright. I decided to think of it as wine again.

  ‘ “The temporalities of Byzantium and Trebizond went into eclipse when the cities finally fell to the Turk,” Considine said. “As had happened with the First Rome, its temporal empire became a spiritual one, albeit one where the temporal and spiritual were not always too easily defined and separated. Thus the Western Roman Empire survives to this very day. In the East, the guardians of the Rite made no such compromise. It is true that the Ottoman overlords allowed the Patriarch to administer us, and we were allowed to worship all but unmolested. But the Rite, even so, had to endure. No chances could be taken. A few of us retreated. There were no secrets; what was open, even if obscure, has become secret through forgetfulness, through unwillingness, through indifference. We endured through the centuries. Trebizond changed, but not in our hearts.”

  ‘ “Anamnesis,” Alexander said.

  ‘ “Yes, indeed.”

  ‘ “But how did you come to be here?” I asked, indicating the room, and therefore the whole charmed enclave.

  ‘ “It is simple enough,” Dr Considine said. “While Byzantium was yet under threat, our ambassadors sought to set up places of refuge and strength in other parts of Christendom. Certain small matters were divulged in order to gain the small but vital privileges that have enabled us to remain steadfast. Business was transacted. Compacts were sealed.”

  ‘ “They are inviolable,” Alexander whispered.

  ‘I nodded. “Quite so, quite so,” I said, trying to sound assuring. “I have examined your documents here and my employers will have to accept the legitimacy of your status. It is indeed unchallengeable.” I did not want doubts about my sincerity—which was, and is, absolute—to hinder this tale.

  ‘ “I thank you,” Alexander said.

  ‘ “This is our last redoubt, if you will,” Dr Considine continued. “But once, the Heirs of the Rite lived on in their own land until the tragedy befell them that even they were powerless to resist.”

  ‘ “You are referring to the fall of the Ottoman Empire?”

  ‘ “Yes. Empires rise and fall. When this one fell, the new leaders declared that only Turks could live i
n their new republic. All Greeks had to return to Greece.”

  ‘Alexander snorted with disgust.

  ‘ “As if the Heirs were any more ‘Greeks’ than they were ‘Turks’ or ‘Cappadocians’ or ‘Pontics’ or whatever. Such distinctions are meaningless. But they were driven out. A remnant made good their escape to the place that had been prepared and which was waiting.”

  ‘ “And so we have remained,” Dr Considine said. “I served the Lord Acolyth, the Guardian of the Guardians to the Heirs of Byzantium.” He paused, and sipped from his glass. I did likewise. “My Lord died many years ago. His honours and burdens were placed upon my shoulders. You come here as I in my turn grow old, and look to the conferring of the Lordship on another.”

  ‘Alexander reached out and put his hand on Dr Considine’s. It was the tenderest of gestures, yet it was filled with latent or suppressed power. The two men—apparently so contrasting in all outward appearances—exchanged a look of such intimacy and perception that for a moment tears came to my eyes. Understand—there was nothing at all impure or unseemly in it. But it certainly could not have been conventional. Their relations were clearly as multi-faceted as the ancient window-panes of the room, and shone in as many directions as the sunlight flashing through those windows glinted and sparkled off the jewels and glass and metal objects that we had been examining on the table. Purity and power were mixed. The bond between the old man and the young one was a mystery—in the true sense of the word.

  ‘ “I am not of the Byzantine land. There is no Byzantine blood in me, not that I know of. I am a native of”—and Dr Considine named the nearest reasonably-sized town—“but I had been chosen to serve and defend, and I have done so to the best of my ability. How Alexander was brought here, I do not know. I only know that he was allowed to find this place, and he will soon take his rightful position here. He will soon enter into his inheritance as the new Lord Acolyth. And who knows then what he will do or where he might go?”